HETALIA BELONGS TO HIDEKAZ HIMARUYA
NICOLAE CEAUSESCU (1918-1989) WAS A REAL PERSON
This Wellington guy was one of the most influent people in the British Parliament, a man who mingled with the Queen and the nation himself, so Ceaușescu had much interest in making his stay comfortable and the after-lunch conversation to be amusing. Wellington, with a cigar on his lips, a gift from Ceaușescu, wandered the room. A room which surely must have reminded him of what Queen Elizabeth enjoyed in Buckingham Palace, with its white and golden decoration, floors and fireplace made of marble, antique furniture, shining Murano glass chandeliers. And the other seventy-nine rooms, the private cinema downstairs, the exuberant gardens, the indoor pool decorated with a mosaic by Olga Porumbaru...Yes, he was surely thinking that Russia himself would have given an arm to have these sort of things.
Wellington stopped by the window and looked through it for so long Ceaușescu approached to see what he was looking at. It was Romania, who was coming out of the greenhouse with a potted plant in his hands.
"I have seen him on the media..." Wellington said.
(«Though he didn't look this thin and...», he thought, and, failing to find a word to describe the impression that his face gave him, he shook it off. )
"But I have never had the chance to meet him in person." He continued, keeping his impressions to himself. "What is he like?"
"Quite easy-going." Ceaușescu replied, his lips curving. "Would you like me to call him over?"
"Oh, he seems busy, I wouldn't want to bother him."
"As you please. I was intending to introduce him to you later, anyway. He's got work to do until dinner time. He's a fine worker, I'm telling you. From dusk till dawn, he will be working his hardest. He also needs it. Work is life for the likes of him."
"Yes, Mr. England is very much that way...Nations are curious beings."
"Indeed."
"I read that Saint Isidore of Seville, in his Etymologiae, back in the 7th century, described them as miracles similar to Jesus Christ. Supernatural forces incarnated, given a human appearance so that the people could connect to high ideas they wouldn't otherwise comprehend. In a much more poetical way, but that was more or less what he argued."
"Well, I highly doubt God exists but there must be something indeed, because nations are really something else." Ceaușescu replied.
Crossing his arms behind his back, he watched his nation too, how he got the dead plants out of the greenhouse.
"They work in really peculiar ways." He said. "I have been Romania's keeper for twenty-one years, and I have noticed that he may look human, behave like a human, have the necessities humans have, but he is not. Nations are experts in that: pretending they are like us. Guess that was what Isidore of Seville noted. But no, they did not come to save us, or consciously imprisoned themselves in a flesh prison for our good. I have yet to find something more egotistical than a nation. Deep down, they only care about themselves, and their morals are very weak. They have no more personality than what the masses dictate, and I am not talking about rational ones. When they love, they become so obsessed with that something or someone they will forget who they are and pour themselves into it body and soul; when they hate, they do it with passion, won't stop until the subject of their hate is completely wiped out; the economy and politics affect them in a deeper way than any of us, and since those are unstable, their health, their sanity, are, too; their memory includes centuries, millennia; and they've got this instinct, this drive, let's say, not to find resources and make use of them, like us humans do, but always want for more, expand their territory and...crush whoever gets in the way."
"Oh, yes. I have seen that in Mr. England. I think you are very right. They can act a bit like wild foals." Wellington nodded.
Ceaușescu nodded as well. Who would have told, seeing affable-looking Romania?
"And like wild foals, they must be tamed."
Wellington discreetly turned his eyes to him. Ceaușescu's fine smile had disappeared, and was looking at Romania through the window with a stone-cold face.
"Yes. I suppose that's what I am. Romania's tamer. That's what Her Majesty and all politicians are at the end of the day. Men and women who do their best to keep them on track. If we let them follow their instincts, it would get dangerous for themselves and the others. It's not that difficult. It just depends on the character. Your nation, England, is one of those which I call good boys. They just need the right words. Others, like Russia, are a little more complicated. Wild foals indeed. And, like in the case of foals, one must...use the whip on them..."
Ceaușescu turned his eyes at Wellington.
"It's the best for them." He insisted.
Wellington showed his agreement with a nod.
"It's the best for them." He repeated.
"They are a jumble of contradictory feelings, after all." Ceaușescu said. "They think they know what's best for them but it's not true. They need order."
Ceaușescu turned his eyes back at Romania. Did Romania feel watched? Did his ears ring? For he looked into their direction. Wellington was still unable to find the words to describe what was in those eyes.
Grandeur, perhaps. It didn't need to look happy, or even healthy.
The one who had been able to talk Russia back, stand his ground, distance himself from the Soviet Union...
And all of that thanks to the man standing by his side. Ceaușescu was the man who had made Romania an admired nation around the world, earning the same admiration.
The proof of his argument. The example of what a good direction did to a nation.
"And that's what we are here for." Ceaușescu finished the sentence.
They didn't know...No one saw...No one believed...
But they would see...They would believe...They would know...
Because Ceaușescu ignored one thing about nations: they didn't perceive time like humans did. That made them extremely patient.
His presence used to be enough for him to fill the streets...Now, he had to threaten workers with firing them if they didn't attend. He had to be very severe with Romania to make him listen. But he wasn't up there, in the balcony, with him. He was below, surrounded by his people.
That thing...in his eyes...
It was a mumble first. Then, it started to grow into a few whistles and complaints. Finally, it became an evident boo.
Ceaușescu looked around nervously. "Allo? Allo, comerades? Allo?"
Romania was among the people who shook their fist at him and shouted. He didn't even blink looking at him.
Ceaușescu faltered, turned around again, looking for something or someone which could inspire him the right words to calm these people down, make them understand...All these promises he had just delivered...weren't enough?
If the silk glove doesn't work, use the whip.
His bodyguards glanced at the heckler and made him retreat back into the Palace, accompanied by the mob's yelling and booing.
Until the army once more started firing at them.
But he didn't listen, he didn't listen! He could still be counted among all those lowlifes who assaulted his buildings, waved his flag, and shouted. He should have been with him but stayed with them instead. He wasn't a prisoner. Ceaușescu wanted to believe he was, at first, but wasn't. He tended their wounds, encouraged them and helped them, sure he helped them do this...
The whole world was looking...Not with approval, like before...The international press talked about thousands of casualties, children included...Certain people he couldn't get his hands on said to the nations abroad that Romania had been hungry for years...They wouldn't help, not now that they knew the horrible truth...But they had to! Someone had to come in his aid! Russia! Russia would come!
But he didn't come. No one did. He fled in his helicopter along with his wife. Get out of here. Wait until Romania calmed down. He needed time to get back to his senses and understand all he did was for his own good...Or perhaps it was true he made mistakes, in which case he was still in time to correct them...
The anti-aircraft fire forced them to escape by car. Unfortunately, they ended in the hands of the wrong people. They locked them inside of an office and men with weapons took them away.
Him and his wife were accused of very ugly things. Genocide, stealing the nation's wealth, enslaving it...He tried to defend himself, but this was not a trial with an ordinary judge, or even had a helpful lawyer. The accusator: Romania. He barely spoke. He seemed more like an observer.
What is the penalty for these crimes, according to the Constitution?
Romania didn't bat an eye when he heard the word 'death'.
It was the 25th of December. But in a communist land, what did that date matter? No gifts, no saying goodybe to the family, no mercy.
But Russia would still come and put order in his dominions, right?
No, he didn't. All he did was cross his arms. "I've got no saying in Romania's internal affairs".
The trial started at 05:30 a.m. The sentence was applied at 02:50 p.m.
They could have been shot without having this masquerade, with the press and the cameras at the door and all! If they wanted them dead, why didn't they just do it? Did they want to make it seem like it was fair?
"Romania, you don't know what you are doing!"
And he was standing there, with the soldiers.
Sure he didn't know. What did he expect would happen after this? Did he expect all his problems to just magically disappear? Would his death make him happy?
A shiver shook Ceaușescu when his eyes and Romania's met.
It would.
And he almost lost his composture, because, on the verge of death, he saw him the way he truly was. And saw that Isadore of Seville was terribly wrong.
Nations were not like Jesus Christ—they were Legion!
In his flaming eyes, he saw the fire of something ancestral. In his voice...
"Merry Christmas, Nicolae, Elena."
...heard the cold whisper of millions of Romanians, dead and alive.
Right before they were mowed down for the world to see.
THE END